


what we do in the trees

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post Episode: Demons, Southern Gothic, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: After Scully is weakened by her chemo treatments and the illness ravaging her body,  she and Mulder take on a case with a lighter workload: a series of grave robbings in a tiny town in northern Georgia.





	1. Chapter 1

_My darling Davis,_  
  
_Do you know what I do when you leave me all by myself to go work by the lake? I go to our place in the woods. I think of all the things we do near the trees. We’ve lived our entire lives in these woods, honey, and I know them just as well as I know you. They just don’t love me like you do, is all._

_Return home safe._

_Love, Tilly_

_-_  
  
Dana Scully  _ached_ , from the soles of her feet to her dry, itchy scalp. On the flight from Dulles to ATL, her joints had surrendered. Parachuted off the plane. Left her without a note. Now when she stood, she stood straight as a statue, for it felt as if she were nothing but solid bone. She walked like a skeleton, rattled and clicked like a skeleton. Staring into the mirror, she had to admit she looked the part. **  
**

In the rental, Mulder drove and listened to her groan and creak and snap in the passenger seat. The radio played nothing but static so close to Black Rock Mountain, and there was nothing of note for them to talk about at present. It wasn’t his fault if he listened. It didn’t sit right with her, that she didn’t mind the audience. But she was too tired to call it out.

There was a frost between them that refused to melt, not with time, not with the full blast of the heater. Georgia was warmer than D.C., having yet to undergo its first frost. The air was brisk, the leaves on the trees were aging gracefully, and she watched them move from green to red and back to green again. The yellows and oranges gave her a bit of a headache, being as bright as they were.

“You still cold?” Mulder cut into the silence, peering sidelong at her as her teeth chattered and she squirmed under her blanket.

“I’m okay,” she said. He was already sweating in a full suit in the hot car.

She considered feigning sleep, just so he could pretend to stop worrying. It would give them both a much needed break. But the roads were winding further up the hills, growing narrower and narrower the closer they got to town. Soon the car jiggled over dirt and patches of jagged asphalt and she had to breathe in deeply to control the nausea. Thankfully the radio had popped back up, ripe with the smooth, hospitable embrace of Nashville sound. Patsy Cline crooned. Dana Scully coughed.

The town of Bartram was a tenth the size of its neighbor, Clayton, hosting a minuscule population of 217. Its jumble of wooded hilltops kept the residents at a respectful distance from each other while the town center brought them all back together. The whitewashed church with its proud, gleaming steeple sat smack-dab in the middle, surrounded by rolling fields of leaf-littered grass and an immaculately kept graveyard.

There were no gates in town: not at any of the residences, and not at the little wooden church. It belied a certain openness that the acres between homes fought to dispel.  _Welcome,_  the town said, after politely showing you the door.

An old Shell gas station, trembling on its last legs, also functioned as a farmer’s market during harvest season. As they drove past it Scully spotted pecans, sweet potatoes, and a few old men talking to each other across tent space. It was a bright spot in the mid-morning mountain fog. A family or two roamed among the produce, feeling for ripeness, feeling for rot, as the children chased each other down the slope of a hill nearby.

“This is where Officer Brighton said he’d meet us,” Mulder said, parking in the dirt lot next to the market.

Scully folded her blanket, tossed it in the backseat, and stretched as much as she could. Holding back a pained groan, she tried to play their game, squeeze a little life into the banter that until now defined their partnership. “How do we know Officer Brighton hasn’t been hexed?” It came out breathy. She couldn’t control the heaving, then. Her heart hurt like she’d been staked, and it pounded harder as she watched his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

“He seemed fine this morning on the phone,” is all he replied, cutting the engine and opening his door.

She followed, tall and steady in her heels on the slippery leaves that crunched underneath their feet. That was how they communicated best, anyway: with no words at all, only their synchronized, inquisitive gait as they advanced further and further into the unknown.

Inside the station was an unmanned convenience store, for the attendant was three hands deep into an emotionally taxing game of bridge.

“You goddamn sons of bitches!” Cards hit the floor at whip speed, and the young attendant drew his chair all the way back, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. “Y’all are just lucky.”  
  
“Ain’t no luck in bridge!” A man in uniform— _Officer Brighton_ , Scully guessed—tugged at the attendant’s arm and tried to haul him back into his foldout chair. “It’s about _skill_. Now sit your ass back down and finish this game, Preston, or we ain’t gonna invite you no more.”

“Well I wanna play poker then. Least I have a chance.”

“Oh boy you ain’t got no chance in hell,” laughed a man on the opposing team, slapping his hand down on the table. “We’ll clean you straight out. Make your mamma hop out her wheelchair just to whoop you.”

“Simmer, simmer,” said the final player, shaking his head and lifting his hands up to tamp down the commotion. He was old and wrinkled, friendly in face and tone. Just like that, the argument dimmed down into a few quietly muttered insults, and in that time the old man looked up to see the agents huddled underneath the doorway, staring. “We got company,” he said, and Officer Brighton snapped his head up and widened his eyes.

“Agent Mulder.” He shot out of his chair, sticking his hand out as he approached them. He shook Mulder’s hand with a firm handshake, and loosened his grip quite a bit with Scully. “And you must be Agent Scully. Thank y’all for comin’ so quickly… on account of nobody being killed and all.”

“Desecration is still a felony,” Mulder said.

“That’s just it. We can’t even call it desecration yet, not when we don’t know where the damn things are.” Brighton scratched his head, then nodded over at the old man. “Davis,” he said, and Davis stood up and pushed his chair in. “Husband of the first one gone missing,” Brighton explained. “He’s been the most help.”

He turned to Preston and narrowed his eyes. “We’re gonna need the backroom now. You got anything back there you don’t want us to see?”

Preston slid behind rows and rows of candy and potato chips, knocking over a rack in his haste to get to the back room. Then he disappeared behind a heavy white door while the three remaining men cackled at the poor boy’s lack of luck.

“And he thinks he’d stand a chance at poker.” The unnamed man, smiley and quite rotund, snapped up his hat from the back of his chair, saluted his friends, and stepped outside.

Mulder caught Scully’s eyes he brought two fingers up to his lips as if holding a joint. She sighed as he sucked air into his mouth and lolled his head back.

“What he’s doin’ ain’t so bad,” Brighton shook his head. “Not compared to the stuff they bring in from the Trail. Preston’s a good kid.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Davis grinned wide. “A fine boy. Dumb as a rock, but a fine young man.” He said it with an inflection of pride.

Preston darted out of the back room and positioned himself behind the front counter, waving them all away from the door. “Go on now. Room’s all set for you,” he said. “You’re blockin’ the main entrance.”

The tone shifted as soon as they crowded into the small office. There were only three chairs around a small, circular table, and Brighton insisted on standing as the agents took the seats across from Davis. Suddenly no one was smiling.

Davis dropped his head into his hands and heaved a sob that held the pain of a thousand years lived. It was a low howl, a tired, empty thing, and it was gut-wrenching to listen to.

“It was so bad, losing her the first time.” He wiped the tears from his cheeks and spoke directly to the table. “And now she’s gone and left me again. It’s like her body was the only thing keeping me on this earth.”

“Now Davis, don’t you go thinkin’ that. You got all of us here in Bartram lovin’ you and needin’ you.”

“Don’t take no offense, Rex, but you ain’t no Tilly,” Davis chuckled. He looked at Mulder, then he looked at Scully, and his eyes were earnest, brown as bark. He looked ten years younger, caught in a memory. “Tell me. You ever love anybody like that?” He asked. “Where life just don’t make no damn sense without them?”

They looked at each other but remained quiet.

“Of course you ain’t,” Davis sighed. “You ain’t never met my Tilly.”

“Can you think of any reason why someone might want to hurt Tilly? Even after death?” Mulder asked, having procured a legal pad and pen from his briefcase. “Or do you think someone might be trying to hurt you?”

“I can answer that,” Officer Brighton said. “Not a damn one. Tilly and Davis are celebrities in this town.”

“Now Rex—”

“Naw Davis, I’m being objective here. Everybody knows Davis and Tilly. Everybody  _loves_ Davis and Tilly. When she died, we had the whole damn town show up for the funeral. All two-hundred seventeen people. Even the little babies. Even the dogs showed up when Mrs. Tilly died. That’s why this whole thing has been a bitch to solve. You got everybody pointing fingers cuz everybody wants to get to the bottom of this, but it’s tearing the town apart.”

“Can you walk us through the whole thing?” Scully asked. “From the beginning? When the first body went missing.”

“That was two weeks ago. September third. I get a call from the groundskeeper over at the church around six o’clock in the mornin’, and he tells me there’s been a grave robbing. Now we get a decent amount of crime here in Bartram, I ain’t gonna lie to you and say we’re an innocent lot. But people in Bartram tend to hurt themselves, not others. You gotta be a cold son of a bitch to rob a grave.

“Now, at this point Cody, the groundskeeper—he hasn’t finished telling me the whole story. I’m sittin’ in the Clayton precinct, thinking someone just popped open a casket and took themselves a couple of rings, maybe a watch or a gold chain. Sold it for drugs. But then Cody says ‘No, officer. They done robbed the whole body. I got nothing but an empty lot here’.”

“And that was Tilly,” Mulder said. Brighton and Davis both nodded, and Mulder scribbled away. “I imagine with the turn of the season and the time that’s passed, it’ll be difficult to gather much evidence from the plot. We got the photos you faxed over, but we’ll need the originals. Did you find anything suspicious at the plot?”

“What’s suspicious was the lack of evidence,” Brighton said. “Whoever did it was meticulous. It looked professional. First we had our eye on the groundskeeper, but he’s gettin’ up there in age and he’s so terrible at his job already that we had to cross that off. Then we were looking at the two young gentlemen who do the grave digging over at First Baptist. But their alibis were rock solid.”

“Where were they?” Scully asked.

“In the drunk tank.” The officer sighed. “Like I said. We ain’t innocent, but we tend to hurt ourselves, you know?”

“Can you tell us about Suzanne Cumberland? She was the suspect you mentioned on our phone call.” Mulder said.

Davis finally piped up, after he’d spent nearly thirty minutes in silence, just listening to the conversation around him. “It ain’t Suzanne,” he said, rubbing his face. “What I’d give for them idiots to shut their damn mouths.”

Brighton fidgeted a little and leaned against the wall. “Suzanne’s a little new here.”

“Rex, she’s been here for about five years now. You can’t call that new.”

“She’s uh. She’s young. She’s a troubled young girl, from way up the trail.”

“Ain’t no more troubled than you or I, Rex.”

“The people in town… or a small, vocal subset of it, anyway, took to dislikin’ her. She’s a quiet sort, you know, until you look at her funny and then she’s loud as hell. Can’t count on two hands the amount of fights I’ve broken up involving that lady. Anyway, there’s been reports on her prowlin’ round the church late at night, or goin’ on long walks up the trails. No one else walks those trails when the sun goes down.”

“And you suspect her?” Scully knew, vaguely, what this was all leading up to. Mulder often threw the most ridiculous details of a case at her long after they boarded the plane. Suzanne Cumberland’s story was one that repeated itself again and again throughout history: Odd, Reclusive Woman Stands Out, Must Be Witch. This wasn’t the seventeenth century, however. Witch hunts were impractical. Satanic Panic was to a hoax. Suzanne Cumberland wasn’t a—

“They’re callin’ her a witch, Miss Scully,” Davis said. “A witch.”

“Some folks at the church started noticing things about her, small things that added up.” Brighton said. “She’s got this necklace made of bone.”

“Human bone?” Mulder’s pen stopped moving.

“Toad bone, for chrissake,” Davis laughed. “She’s a weirdo. Who ain’t?”

“That’s actually common in Appalachian folklore,” Mulder pointed out. “It was all apart of becoming a witch. You’d boil away the meat of a small animal and wear the bones around your neck. European witchlore also has a lot to say about toads.”

“See, that’s why I called you here. I know this ain’t exactly a high priority case in the grand scheme of things, but people here are mighty upset. After Tilly, they dug up Sarah May.”

“Tilly’s best friend,” Davis supplied. “Died twelve years ago. Nothing but bone now, I imagine.”

“Then after Sarah May, we lose two more bodies in one night. Raymond and Josephine Graham.”

“Also good friends of ours. Raymond was my business partner for nearly thirty years, doin’ pump installations near Lake Rabun.”

“I’m a little… confused, on why Suzanne Cumberland is at all connected with the case. Besides the fact townspeople dislike her and find her taste in jewelry to be… unsavory.” Scully looked to Officer Brighton, who appeared quite young and squirmy under her scrutiny. “Do you have a motive?”

“She’s an addict. She’s having a rough time of it, is all. The way the folks at church described it to me, they think she’s usin’ the bodies in some kind of ritual that’ll make her well again. Say it’s good ole’ healing mountain magic. But what a doctor might describe as withdrawal symptoms, they’re saying it’s incantations. That she’s talkin’ to the devil when she gets to shivering and muttering to herself.” Davis grew more furious as he kept talking, gnashing his teeth, the wrinkled skin of his hands bunching up as he slammed his fists down on the table. “If Tilly were here, she’d tell them all to stuff it. And they’d listen to her, too. They listen to me, but not like they listened to Tilly.”

“Tomato season was bad this year with the early blight. And healthy, strapping livestock have been falling down dead in their pens. We’re spooked.”

“What do you personally believe, Officer Brighton? Do you think that Suzanne is using witchcraft to curse Bartram residents? For rejecting her?”

If it was possible, the young cop looked even more uncomfortable while formulating his answer to Mulder’s question. “It’s a lot of… strange happenings, all at once. We’ve got such a small force up in Clayton, and while we’re not the busiest cops in the U.S., we’ve hit a wall with this case. People are outraged over the missing bodies, the dead livestock, the ruined crops. That’s their livelihood, y’know? That’s how they make money and feed their families, and now their friends are being dug up out of their graves. People want answers. This year there’s been no peace for anybody alive, and now it’s looking like there ain’t no peace in death, either.”  
  
“Blame the outsider,” Davis smiled ruefully. “That’s  _real_ Christian-like.”

“I ain’t sayin’ she did it one way or another. I don’t know that I believe in all this hoodoo crap. We just didn’t know where else to look. And the reason we contacted y’all—well, y’all are the ones who do know where to look. Maybe you got some fancy equipment or somethin’ that’ll tell us more about the soil at the scene or whathaveyou, or maybe there really is something going on here that God don’t approve of. Whatever it is, we’d appreciate your help in whatever form it takes.”

“That’s what we’re here for.” Mulder slid his notes back into his briefcase, and Scully did the same. “We’ll need to sift through the evidence your precinct has collected, and then we’ll take a look at the grave sites.”

“Tomorrow we’ll begin interviewing the citizens,” Scully said. “Does Suzanne work? Do you know when would be a good time to catch her?”

“She works from home now, mostly. She’s got a little business she runs on the dot com. She’ll be available anytime you head on over. Now, before you get to talkin’ with anybody else, come over to my place. I’m in the big white cabin, right before you get in the thick of the woods.” Davis wrote his address on the back of a napkin Preston had left behind. “I’ll tell you a little bit more about the town and take you on a tour. How’s that sound?”

Mulder and Scully thanked the cop and the grieving widower after everybody agreed on what would take place in the morning. After that, they followed Officer Brighton over to the Clayton precinct, where they sorted case notes and evidence boxes that yielded no information pertinent to the case.

It was difficult for Scully to separate herself from her resentment as she worked alongside Mulder. It had dawned on her the moment he sat her down for a slideshow and presented her with a slew of empty graves that this was a message to her—a demand. Slow down. There were no criminals to chase. There were no bodies to cut up. It would be an easy solve, where no one would be collapsing in exhaustion, rushed to the hospital, or feel compelled to hold the other at gun point.

She wanted to be grateful, but she couldn’t.

It only reminded her of how bad things were getting.

The nosebleeds were increasing in frequency and longevity, to the point where she’d be lightheaded and unable to carry a conversation. Her hair grew brittle; she feared applying any heat, and when she brushed it she went very slow. Eating was a chore to her now because she never knew when or how it would pass, whether she would throw it up or have it sit inside her for days, causing sharp pains that made it difficult for her to breathe. Every movement she made echoed with the screaming, hollow wind of death. It was hurtling towards her, and as she became more acquainted with it, preparing herself for it to consume her, Mulder prostrated himself before her as the shield she never asked for.

She’d known he wasn’t coping well with her illness, but it wasn’t until she’d found him in that old summer home in Rhode Island that she’d realized it was even worse than she thought. High on ketamine, brandishing his gun, shouting nonsense over the voices playing tricks on his tortured, drill-scarred mind. It was much, much worse than she thought. Before that night she had hope. Before that night she’s been reaching acceptance. Not anymore.

Then, only one week later, she’d collapsed during an autopsy.

He hadn’t been able to look at her as she sat upright in her hospital bed. She’d wrung the thin cotton blanket in her hands and tried to convince them both that everything would be alright.   _I just forgot to eat, Mulder. I probably didn’t get enough sleep. I was feeling nauseous—_

_Because you’re sick, Scully. You’re really, really sick. But how sick are you?_

_Mulder—_

_Just answer the question, Scully._

She had.

And now here they were.

Their traipse through the empty graveyard yielded no spectacular results. With rubber gloves they sifted through the soil, but the holes themselves had already been refilled, declared a hazard for anyone visiting a loved one. They studied and discussed the names, dates, and epitaphs on every headstone, their hands stiffening and swelling in the late September chill.

When the sun slid down the mountainside, they declared themselves finished and climbed back in the car. Their original plan had been to stay in Clayton, but Davis assured them there would be lodgings right there in Bertram.

“The trails are a little more complex out here, so we get some hikers in when the weather’s right. For those who want more of a challenge.” He had explained. “I may be old but I can still hike every single one.”

As for Dana Scully, she could barely get out of the car when they arrived at the lodge. Mulder guided her patiently, letting her lean on him as they walked slowly to the front office and booked their rooms. She didn’t enjoy it, how small she was when he burst forth from the ground like the pine trees that towered above the buildings. 

But that was the way things would be from now on.


	2. Chapter 2

The cabin of Davis and Tilly Norrington sat high in between the oaks, next to a rushing river that dropped off into the most breathtaking example of the Bartram Falls. Davis offered them fresh coffee and an early morning trek around the town, but they had to politely decline; Scully needed a cushion and a functional heater. Instead they sat in his living room, drinking coffee and taking notes on the random tidbits he divulged about the townsfolk. He shared addresses of the people who probably had the most information to give, and warned them off of those who’d be downright useless. **  
**

“Now Rex’s probably urgin’ you to talk with those silly bastards who been spreading all that hoodoo nonsense, right? I know Mason Maycomb is one’a them, and his wife Lynette. Hair so tall it dusts the ceiling. They got the whole congregation goin’ wild over it.” He threw his head back, gulping coffee from the mug until it was empty. “It’s a Sunday. You might as well just head on to the service, catch em all at once. It starts at noon.”

“Will you be attending the service?” Scully asked, tilting her head. There were signs of deeply held religious convictions posted up all around the living room. Embroidered scripture decorated the walls: carefully stitched block quotes surrounded by intricate flowers and forest creatures. A woodcarving of the town church rested on the mantle next to an assortment of ceramic turkey  figurines. The house was well-lived in, cluttered in a familial way. It put her at ease to sit on an overstuffed couch, enveloped by decades of warmth and love.

But Davis’ teeth clenched, and his eyes fell shut as he took a deep breath. “I been taking some time for myself. It’s too hard bein’ back there after burying her. She was involved in so many things. Started the choir.” His lips fluttered into a grim smile. “It’s uh… something I been learning about. How we all grieve differently. I’m giving myself time, tryin’ to keep level-headed. ‘S what she would’ve wanted.”

“That’s good to hear, Mr. Norrington,” Mulder said.

Scully couldn’t read her partner’s face, and his voice was characteristically void of any catch, any mark that might belie his true state of mind. Right as she was about to begin a transaction of goodbyes, Mulder leaned over and carefully picked up a framed photo from the coffee table.

“Is this her?” He asked, turning the photo toward Davis. The widower nodded, smiling at an unshared memory. “She was beautiful.”

“She’s about eighteen there, just two days before we got married.” Davis reached to take the photo from him, stroking his fingertips over the smooth glass. “A month later I was shipped out to Japan. Didn’t see her till the war ended… then it was like a day hadn’t passed. I swooped her up from the city and brought her up here after I got a job with Georgia Power cuz she never stopped complainin’ about the lack of trees where we lived.”

With every word, his voice dropped lower until it was a hushed whisper. He smiled weakly, setting the photo back on the table.

“We’ll be back to speak more about Tilly and your friends,” Mulder said. “While we’re attending the service, can you try and think back to any encounters that strike you as odd? Any reasons one might have to resent Tilly?”  
  
“I can try,” Davis shrugged. “But I can’t promise nothin’. Rex wasn’t too far off the mark yesterday. She wasn’t the kind of woman you resented.”

A knock at the door punctuated his statement, and as Davis rose to answer it, Mulder and Scully gathered their things. Mulder helped her with her coat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Preston’s unruly mop behind the screen door.

“Good to see ya, kid.” Davis stepped aside to let him in. “We got a lotta work to do before the ground starts gettin’ all hard.” He clasped the boy by his sturdy shoulders, grinning up at the bemused agents. “ _Somebody’s_ got to take care of the business when I’m gone, ain’t that right?”

“I’m gonna be the best damn well-digger there ever was,” said Preston, grinning a gap-toothed grin.

Back in the car, they watched the odd pair stalk over to the tool shed and disappear behind the rickety door.

“He seems like he’s doing well,” Scully said. “Considering.”

“That man is on the verge of a mental breakdown, Scully,” Mulder said. He ignored her surprised look, started the engine, pulled out of the driveway, and reached into the cup holder for a sunflower seed. “His wife died what, two weeks ago? And now all the sudden he’s teaching the tricks of his trade to the town stoner?”

“It makes sense that he’d bury himself in his work, Mulder, I mean…” She paused.  _What will happen when I’m gone?_  she thought, and she shooed it away like a mosquito. “He was perfectly right when he said it. Everybody grieves differently, Mulder, but there are healthy ways to go about it.”

_Listen to him, Mulder. Listen to him because he’s right._

“He decorated the house for the season. Did you notice that?” Scully shook her head and he elaborated. “The mantle was covered in pumpkins and turkeys.”

“Being a sucker for the festivities isn’t a sign of being mentally unwell. I’d hate to know what you’d think of my apartment during Christmas time.”

“I bet you there were photos there. Photos of him and Tilly. The one I picked up was the only one in the whole room, I checked.”

“Are you suspicious of him?” Scully asked.

He laughed, but he was rigid as a block of ice. It chilled her. “No, I just found it odd.”

When they arrived at the church, the pews were filled from front to back and the room was alive with a boisterous energy. They were outsiders in their long black trench coats—the Bartram churchgoers were dressed in colors as varied as the harvest. It didn’t take Mulder and Scully long at all to deduce this was as much as a social event as it was a time of worship.

Mulder’s eyes fell on the pastor at the pulpit; it was the same man they’d seen the day before, poking fun at Preston for being so bad at card games. Standing next to him was a woman with hair so big and blonde it put the sun to shame. The pastor rolled his eyes and the woman huffed and stalked away.

Mulder leaned in to Scully, muttering into her ear, “That’s probably Lynette.”

“Mr. Norrington described her perfectly,” Scully muttered back.

Silence overtook the room in a gentle wave, and when the pastor had everyone’s attention, he thanked everybody attending and opened his bible to an earmarked page.

“As we head into the new holiday season, I figured we oughta _discuss_  how easy it is to lose sight of what’s important and mistake the Christmas lights for the light of the Lord above us. Friends, if you turn to Exodus 20:4-6…”

“You’ve been called.  _Out_. Dana Katherine,” Mulder whispered, and he reached out to pinch the chain underneath her collar. She had to bite her lip to stifle her laughter, but he saw her cheeks turn pink.

“‘ _You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below._ ’ Think for a minute, how  _Halloween_ might factor into all of this, if the images of demons and lost souls might not  _represent_ what we know waits for us in the earth beneath…”

They listened respectfully through the rest of the service, though Scully couldn’t help but squirm on the pew. The wood was especially uncomfortable. Again she saw herself as solid bone, grinding to a fine, powdery dust. Would the mysterious Suzanne Cumberland come to collect her in a little glass vial? All of the bones in her body ached, every single one, and she counted them, counted them, counted them…

She jolted awake with a snort when something brushed her cheek. Mulder smiled at her, tender and pained. “I won’t tell your priest,” he promised.

“I appreciate that.” She sat up straight, smoothing out her coat. People were filing down the pews and squeezing through the red double doors to socialize outside. The pair followed behind, setting their sights on Lynette Maycomb, who stood out in the crowd like a beacon.

“Mrs. Maycomb?” Scully called out.

The woman whipped around to face them, eyes wide and keen. Her seafoam green suit made it look like she’d been deposited there straight from Easter. They presented her their badges.

“I’m Agent Mulder, and this is my partner Agent Scully. We were told you had some concerns regarding the grave robbings that have been happening here,” Mulder said, tucking his wallet back in his pocket. “Could we ask you some questions?”

“Oh! Oh, let me get my husband,” she said, and they waited for her underneath a tree.

Mason Maycomb wore a tie that matched his wife’s pantsuit and spoke with an energy that paralleled any raving televangelist. “Finally someone’s gonna _listen_ to us,” Mason said, and the volume of his voice drew an eager crowd inward, circling around like pastel vultures.

“We’d prefer to do this in private—” Scully tried, but Lynette cut her off.

“We’re done sittin’ around and bein’ quiet about all of this.”

_“The bible tells us ‘take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them._ ’ What’s been done to poor Tilly Norrington is on request by Satan himself.” Some people began to leave, not wanting to be involved. The cheers from the rest of them urged Mason on, and he took to the center of the circle with his hands gesticulating wildly in the air. “But we’re the ones who are serving.” At this, his captive audience fell quiet, unsure.

He threw his finger over east and shouted at the top of his lungs, “By letting his  _whore_  tend our land!”

Everybody was gathered in front of the church, the scene of the crime located only a few yards away. Their cries were loud enough to wake the dead, and a headache rolled with fury behind Scully’s paper thin temples. People began disbursing as soon as it was made clear that Mason Maycomb had made his point.

A small segment broke off and approached Mulder and Scully in a more conservative fashion. They separately fielded inquiries into the case, long-winded tales of angelic deeds done by both Davis and Tilly, and an alarming amount of questionable evidence in support of the Maycombs’ theory.

“Tilly was the Activities Director at the church, and every week she’d have something new planned for us. Group fishing trips over at Rabun, early morning hikes, gardening lessons for the kids.”

“I hit Suzanne with my cart on accident in the Walmart over in Clayton, and the next day all the food in my fridge went bad.”

“You never saw one without the other. If Davis was in the store playing cards, Tilly was selling string beans out front. I barely see him around anymore, but when I do it just breaks my heart. He looks so lonely without her.”

There were more stories of livestock dying while standing straight up, of blighted produce, of bad weather that knocked out the power for only a small section of town. It didn’t help that the woman had been regularly seen collecting roadkill off the side of the road, or holding crystals in her hands as she loped the local trails.

“I’m tellin’ you, the tree just _collapsed._ ” One of the men who had been selling candied pecans at the market yesterday rolled up his dress sleeve as far as it would go, revealing the gnarled skin that covered his arm. “Nearly took all the skin clean off. Nearest emergency room is so far away I barely made it without passin’ out.”

When only Mulder and Scully remained, they walked back over to the graveyard and sought out the stones which crowned their empty graves. “Mulder, we’ve walked into an actual witch hunt here. A witch hunt. In 1997. I fear that they’re out for that poor woman’s blood.”

“What? You don’t think that man’s flat tire wasn’t the direct result of a blood ritual performed under the year’s first full moon?” They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the hills with hands shielding their eyes from the sun. “I agree with you Scully. I don’t think it’s witchcraft.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Appalachian witches were healers. They were called the Granny Witches, descendents of the Irish and Scottish settlers who found their homes in the mountains, with some inspiration drawn from the nearby natives. They didn’t get involved in the sort of petty quarrels all those people are accusing her of. Plus, I can’t recall a single instance of them ever using human body parts to cast their spells. That doesn’t rule her out as a suspect, though. She’s the only one who’s been seen walking around at night. Maybe she fancies herself to be some sort of dark magician.”

“But Mulder, take a look at the order of the empty graves.” She pointed out each robbed plot, one by one. “Only the married couple are next to each other, and everyone else is spaced farther out. If she had dug their bodies up, why would she choose them? They were all in different states of decay. The personal connection between the victims is too strong to simply be a coincidence. I think whoever did this chose very carefully, and what motive would she have? From what we’re hearing, Davis Norrington is the only one around who’s shown the woman kindness. Do you really think she’d do this to him?”   
  
“We won’t know until we meet her,” he said.

She licked her lips and drew her coat tighter around her body. “Let’s go talk to her, then. We inspired quite the mob here. We need to keep an eye on her in case they decide to take matters into their own hands.”

It was two o’clock when they arrived at Suzanne’s trailer, a postage stamp on sprawling fields of golden grass, and Scully’s stomach rattled like change in a beggar’s cup. She’d had her normal breakfast of plain toast and fruit back at the lodge, and the handful of shelled pecans Mulder had bought from the market. At the time she’d been pleased she kept it down. On the whole she’d been feeling a little better today—save for her regrettable nap during the sermon and the resulting headache—and walked with a confidence she had lacked for weeks.

But the lightheadedness was returning, and the nausea. They climbed the metal steps up to Suzanne’s door and Scully had to steady herself against Mulder’s arm as acid suddenly stung her throat and the taste flooded her mouth. He shot her a concerned look, and it was Scully who had to speak for them when Suzanne opened the door. He was too busy looking at her.

“Suzanne Cumberland?” Scully asked. The woman, wary yet resigned, nodded her head behind the screen. “I’m Agent Scully. This is Agent Mulder. We’re here to talk about the vandalism in the Bartram Baptist Cemetery. May we come in?”

“They got the feds in on this?” Suzanne scoffed, but she let them in. “I’ll tell you what I told that piece of shit Brighton. I ain’t got no business playin’ in the dirt.”

The trailer was cramped and cluttered, but clean, and the woman herself was slight and slightly twitchy. She had a thick rope of red hair that she swooped in a bun and tied to the top of her head. Despite the day’s chill, she looked perfectly content in a pair of denim shorts and a spaghetti-strap tank top.

“You can sit,” she sighed, motioning over to a worn, plaid couch. “Y’all want water? Maybe some tea? I was about to put the kettle on when I heard your knock.”

Mulder knocked Scully’s knee with his own, urging her to take advantage. She faked a smile and accepted. “That would be nice, Suzanne. I’ll have a cup.”

“Now I ain’t got that sweet shit. It’ll rot your teeth out. You okay with chamomile? Or I got some elm bark. Great for your throat.”

“Chamomile is fine, thank you,” Scully said. Mulder huffed.

While their host clanged about in the kitchen, he pointed to a wooden broom leaning against the wall and waggled his eyebrows.  
  
“That’s a  _cinnamon broom_.” Scully rolled her eyes. “My mom buys one every year around Thanksgiving. It makes the house smell nice.”

It was making her headache worse. That and the heavy smell of incense. None was burning, but the whole trailer stunk of ash and sandalwood, signifying its frequent use.   
  
She rubbed both throbbing temples until something caught her eye. “Mulder, look,” she said quietly, pointing at a bookcase filled with books, VHS tapes, and assorted knicknacks. “That explains the fascination with roadkill.”

Suzanne Cumberland was a taxidermy enthusiast with an impressive collection. The shelves were lined with small, stiff critters: squirrels, chipmunks, opossums. The most impressive piece was a bobcat Scully had mistaken for some sort of stool, standing by the television on vigilant guard.

Mulder made a face, grinding his teeth. “I always found that hobby to be particularly gruesome.”

“I find it charming.” She got up to inspect the pieces closer, careful not to touch. “It’s just another way of respecting the dead.” It was different to the fetishistic act of desecration; almost its polar opposite. Putting something back together when it had been torn apart, restoring it to its natural state.

“You’re so spooky,” he said, voice filled with affection. He stretched his arms over the back of the couch, cozying in, and watched her. “Now I know to be extremely precise in the terms I lay in my last will, lest I end up on your mantle.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d make you into a throw pillow for the living room.”

“Good thinking. That way I’ll never miss the game.”

“I bet they told you I was using those animals for something far more nefarious,” Suzanne interrupted, making them both jump. She placed a tray on the coffee table with the teapot and two teacups and poured out tea for her and Scully. “I’m just a hobbyist,” she explained, sitting down on the recliner and leaning back. “I try all kinds of shit. Bet you didn’t know I do yoga, too. Learned that at rehab. Long walks for exercise, gets my dopamine levels up. Course I can’t do that in the day or someone might shoot me.”

“Why don’t you tell us about your relationship with the Norringtons?” Mulder asked. “We’re just trying to figure out if there’s anyone in town who holds a grudge against them.”

At the mention of the beloved couple, Suzanne broke into a genuine, toothy smile. “Let me tell you somethin’ about this part of Georgia.” She put her mug down on the coffee table and pulled her legs up on the chair, criss crossing them to get comfortable. “These people got lots to say about where I’m from. How we’re hillbillies and inbred degenerates. I seen _Deliveranc_ e, you know. And around here, they’re so careful to distinguish themselves from all that mess upstate.

“I don’t claim that there’s nothing wrong with the people who live in the Appalachians. But at least they’re good to their own. They don’t like outsiders much, that’s true. But they don’t turn on each other like they do here. On the outside, everyone round here is real nice to you. But then they go home and the crap they talk comes out their ears.

“Not everyone is like that, though. Lots of people just stick to themselves and mind their own business. And a few of them, a very _small f_ ew of them, they’re real good people. Real good. Davis and Tilly? They’re good people.”

“They seem to be well loved around here,” Scully said. Officer Brighton had called them celebrities. Every single person they had spoken with so far mentioned how much they respected the Norringtons and rambled on about how much they’d given back to the community.

“That ain’t the half of it. There wouldn’t be a Bartram without the Norringtons. I’ve heard the story plenty’a times. When they came up here, they came up to nothin’. I mean the people who were here didn’t have no power, no running water. It was Davis and a couple other Georgia Power workers who started putting the town together. Fixin’ up all the houses, building the church and the gas station. Meanwhile Tilly Norrington was reaching out to folk, bringing them all together to clear trails past the river, getting people to start fishing and planting and living off the land. Shit, she got them to start  _writing their congressmen a_ bout incorporating us into Rabun County.”

The town-wide obsession with the Norringtons began to make sense through the lens of them being Bartram’s founders. Scully wondered if the grave robbings might not be some kind of political revenge, and she made a mental note to discuss that with Mulder later. Anyone who possessed the power this beloved couple had were bound to make some enemies.

But it served no political purpose to exact revenge after the enemy was already dead, unless it was to besmirch their name. It seemed as if the crime had only made Bartram more protective of the Norringtons. The more Scully worked it over, the more personal to Davis it seemed—which would explain why the other victims,Sarah, Raymond, and Josephine, were so rarely brought up.

Something strange stirred in her heart. An ominous feeling. She chalked it up to sympathy. This story was a tragic one; no matter the outcome, Davis would be left alone.

A few times she dropped in and out of the conversation due to a fog that had begun clouding her thoughts. She tried to abate the nausea with tea, but it slid down without taste, without temperature, without any comfort. It grew harder for her to follow along but she forced herself through it; she wasn’t ready for the humiliating event of needling Mulder for these small details.

She wasn’t  _that_ far gone.

“Were you close?” She asked, trying to sound fully present.

“They were the only ones who’d talk to me after my probation officer came to town.” She shook her head, sighing deeply. “You see, my mistake was in being honest with people when they asked. I always try to be honest now.  I see it as a way of life. I was upfront—back home I had a real problem with some medication I was  _prescribed_  and I got in a lot of trouble because of it. But to these people it was like I’d snorted crack and shot their dog.”

“But the Norringtons stood up for you,” Scully said.

“Yeah. They pulled me aside and told me I’d always be welcome when they were around. You know… they got no children. I think they see almost everyone they meet as their own little babies. Tilly made sure I still showed up to church. I don’t feel so comfortable going now, which ain’t good. I rely heavily on the Lord to pull me through. But actually, I been working with Davis on all’a that. A lot of stuff I learned in rehab I tell to him, because it helps with the grief.”

Mulder sat up, interest peaked. “How often do you see Davis, Suzanne? And what do you tell him?”

“Well he’s a kind old soul, and he’s really my only friend. We’ve seen each other maybe three or four times since Tilly died, which ain’t all that much, but it’s cuz he’s doin’ as I told him to. Finding productive ways to spend his time. I taught him how to cut a cabochon in my shop out back. I sell those things on EBay, make a pretty penny. We got lots of nice rocks around here, and since Tilly loved nature so much I thought it might bring him closer to her. Even taught him how to stuff a squirrel or two. The one on the shelf with the wonky eye?” She pointed at it, grinning. “A Davis Norrington original.”

Mulder cringed when his eyes followed her outstretched finger and fell upon the malformed creature, but Scully was too distracted by the pressure building up in her head. She felt like a balloon about to pop.

“Ma’am! Are you okay? You’re bleeding!” Suzanne scrambled out of her chair and ran into the kitchen. She came back with a wad of paper towels as Mulder helped Scully sit up straight, hand firm on her back while she pinched her nostrils and fought the urge to double over.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Y’all ain’t mountain folk, I’m guessing,” Suzanne said, gently pulling Scully’s hand from her face. Scully took the towels, cupped them under her nose, and stood up too quickly. She felt a fresh wave of dizziness and the warm tang of chamomile and bile flood her mouth.

“Suzanne, thank you for answering our questions,” Mulder said, guiding Scully towards the front door by her shoulders. “We’ll make sure to contact you if there’s anything else we need.”

“If anyone makes you feel unsafe—” Scully mumbled into the blood-soaked cloth.

“You can call the Clayton P.D. or reach us at Explorer’s Lodge,” Mulder finished for her.

He reached around Scully to pull open the door. The sun shone like the glint on a sharp knife. It cut into her vision with a blinding glare, and the sudden change from the heat of the trailer to the chill of the outside made it impossible for her to draw air into her lungs. Her legs gave out from underneath her on the second to last step as her vision went black, and she tumbled into the brittle grass.


	3. Chapter 3

She awoke in a dark room, the blinds drawn tight against the sun outside, her mouth dry and evil-tasting. Her headache was gone, but her thoughts were impossible to catch as they swirled around her. They were dreamlike, hallucinogenic.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice.

She blinked and tried to bring the room into focus. It was moving too fast. The bed dipped down beside her and she automatically rolled inward, like she weighed too little to offer up resistance.

“Hey, Scully.” His hand on her scalp. Warm and heavy. He petted her, breath hitching when her nails found his thigh and dug in. “You told me to bring you back here and fell asleep. Are you feeling okay?”

She wasn’t.

Her eyes welled with tears as she said, “Yes,” trembling with a horror that refused to be fully realized.

It was too hard to face, that this might be her last case with him. That she might have to go home. The evidence was piling up and the longer she ignored it, the worse it would get. The warning sirens had screamed at her from the moment they’d gotten off the plane, and she had ignored every single one. Every time her stomach rumbled, every time her head hurt so bad she wanted to bang it against the wall. It was a miracle they weren’t working a more strenuous case, that she hadn’t put him in danger this time around.

And that was all she would do, were she to continue denying the truth.

Her time was coming up.

His fingers combed through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp. It soothed her as she stifled a sob, rubbing her face on the pillow. She felt like a failure. She felt like a failure every minute of the day, as her abilities became less and less. As the clock reminded her of how little time she had left. It was the man beside her she was failing, who would be left alone after she was forced to succumb.

“I think I need to go home,” she breathed, unable to look at him. The tears wouldn’t fall. She was too dried up. Only the husk of a person with nothing of the fascinating workings on the inside, none of the flowing blood or pulsating tissue. None of the life.

His palm settled on her cheek and didn’t stray. There was nothing she could bring herself to do but accept its comfort. Months and months ago, she’d had to request that he use a more subtle aftershave—because while his preferred brand was nowhere near excessive, it still tickled her nose in a way that made her stomach roll. She missed it. Oh  _God_ , she missed it  _so much._

Maybe hours passed by the time she lifted her head to look at him; time moved so quickly when she looked back at it, but so slowly when living in the moment. He stared at her, face crumpled in unspeakable pain. She’d expected him to look as certain and strong as the comfort he offered her. Reality crushed her heart. There was no hope in masking the hopelessness.

“We’ll book a flight, go home. Get you in to see your doctor.” He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, like he was brushing away a tear. “Get you feeling well again.”

“No.” She hated herself for doing this to him, and she hated him for making her do it. There was no dignity in this constant worry. No dignity in feeling like she was ruining his life. “I go home, Mulder.”

When his thigh tensed under her grip, she took solace in the fact she could at least make him angry. He was gearing up, discarding his desolation for something much more fierce. Ready to fight her to the death.   
  
“Scully—”

He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

Mulder snatched his hand away and went to answer it, taking all of Scully’s heat along with him. She reached over to turn on the lamp and heard Officer Brighton’s draw from over Mulder’s shoulder. Pulling herself out of bed, she tried to ignore how odd this looked, two FBI agents sharing one bedroom in the dark.

“Oh hey, Agent Scully,” Officer Brighton said, panic written all over his face. “I came over as quick as I could. We got more men at the scene now, but there’s been no hope of calming them down.”  
  
“Calming who down?” Mulder said, feeling at his hip to check for his gun. Scully slipped away to put her shoes on and gear up.

“The town. There’s a decent amount of folks parked outside Suzanne’s place, screamin’ at her to come out. They’re trashing the property and trying to turn her trailer over. I ain’t ever seen em like this before.”

“Is Suzanne inside?” Scully asked.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so. She ain’t answered none and I haven’t gotten an update.” He pointed to his radio. “I think y’all should get out there now. I gotta apologize. I never expected it to get outta hand like this.”

They follow the squad car in their rental, eyes peeled for any sight of the ginger-haired young woman. “She probably got out before they arrived,” Mulder said. “You can see for miles around her property. If she looked out the window even once she would know to run.”

They drove to hills anyway, and as they got closer they saw the same large ring of pastel they had encountered in the graveyard. No one had changed out of their church clothes. The group of about fifteen was small but loud, unsettling as they pounded their fists into the flimsy metal, leaving imprints of their knuckles and the rocks they picked up and launched at it.  

The sky was golden and it lit the horizon with a fury that matched the protesters, who turned and called out when they noticed Mulder and Scully getting out of their car.

“Miss! Miss!” Lynette jogged over, red-faced and voice run ragged. “We saw you! We saw what she did to you!”   
  
“What she did—” Scully furrowed her brow.

“You came out and fell straight into the grass, covered in blood!”

As Scully shook her head, Lynette raised her voice into a pounding boom that caught the attention of the rest of the group. “She did something to you! You made her angry and she hurt you! Well we ain’t havin’ it no more! We’re getting her out!”

“She been doin this town dirty long enough,” someone else said. It was followed by the sound of shattering glass. The trailer began to wobble, unsteady; someone had tied bungee cords to cinder blocks acting as the foundation.

It snapped Scully out of her confusion. Mulder ran behind the unit, where two men were attempting to attach the bungee cord to the back of a truck. “No, no,” Scully said, “I’m _sick._ I had a nosebleed and briefly fainted. Suzanne didn’t do anything.”

Officer Brighton came up with enough of his squad to begin the arrests, ushering squirming, venomous believers into the backs of their cars. A few of them managed to pile into one of their own cars and drive away before they could be caught. When Lynette saw her husband being hauled away in cuffs, she ran toward him, and Officer Brighton apologized before subduing her as well.   
  
“We need to find Suzanne.” Mulder tugged on Scully’s sleeve and pulled her over to the car. “They might be after her.”

It was dark out before they found her, frozen and shivering a mile away, huddled under a thick ridge of rustling trees that lined the very edges of the hillside. When Mulder opened the door to greet her, she shot up and darted forward, catching herself when she almost tripped on a pile of slippery brown leaves.   
  
“Oh! Oh, oh thank God!” She was coughing and sobbing, falling into Mulder’s arms as Scully popped up behind them. “As soon as I saw them I just kept running!”

“They were watching you,” Mulder said. “Did you know that?”

“I mean I  _knew_  but I didn’t, you know?” Scully wrapped her in a blanket they kept in the back of the car. Her teeth were rattling, and she was so small she almost disappeared underneath it. “We gotta get Davis,” she pleaded. “We gotta find him, we gotta get Davis.”

“We need to get you to the station,” Mulder said. “You can’t stay here, Suzanne. It’s not safe for you.”

“No! No we gotta find Davis! I ain’t got nowhere else to go!” She screamed. “He’ll talk sense into them! He will!”

“Alright, where can we find Davis?” Mulder looked up at Scully as he asked this. She shook her head no, but he pressed on. “Let’s try his house.”

“Mulder—”

“She’s terrified, Scully. We can take her over to the station later.”

As she looked at the young woman, only in her shorts and her tank-top and a pair of worn sneakers, looked at her bones poking out from her cheeks to her knees and at her mascara-streaked face, she was forced to acquiesce. They ushered her in the car and drove towards the river, the moonlight streaking the dirt paths and winding roads in its soft white light.

The river ran with a vengeance as they approached the Norrington cabin. All of the lights were turned off, and when they knocked on the door there was no answer.   
  
“Maybe he’s asleep?” Scully offered.

“No, no, he ain’t asleep. He don’t sleep much. I think I know where he is,” Suzanne ranted, full of manic energy. “He goes up the trail sometimes, or he used to, him and Tilly. On Sunday nights. In secret. He told me. They’d go up the trail and—” she took off suddenly, and they ran after her.  
  
“Suzanne! Wait for us!” Mulder called out. He looked back at Scully and she knew the question he was asking, even if she could barely see his face as they both plunged into the woods.

She knew she should go back to the car, but she couldn’t physically stop herself as Mulder’s steps thudded ahead of her own. She saw Suzanne’s glowing white legs winding the steep trail yards ahead and that’s what she kept her focus on as the branches whipped against her face.

It was excruciating. Her lung were fit to burst, and as the trail went higher and higher and she had to draw her knees further up just to climb the hill, she feared she might collapse again. When she almost went down, she managed to cling onto a sturdy branch for support.   
  
“Scully!” Mulder yelled for her, almost turning back.

“I’m fine, keep your eye on Suzanne!” She yelled back, scrambling to give her feet purchase back in the dirt. She had to be mindful of the tall, lumpy roots that reached straight up to heaven. Suzanne’s pale legs. She could still see them, but they were much further away now. Mulder was gaining and she was losing. She was losing, she was losing, she would only keep losing.

But as the owls looked down at them all in disdain, as the eyes of spiders peered out from their cobwebs, looking like tiny jewels that dotted the trail, she kept going, huffing and puffing until the cool air was saturated with her breath. Until she breathed clouds into the night sky and let the wind sting her eyes enough to make her cry, actually cry, the dryness of her becoming saturated with thrill and purpose. Suzanne’s legs. Keep going. Keep going. She could hear the river beside them gurgling and her blood followed along, pumping strong and urgent.

Eventually they came to a wide clearing, illuminated by the moon. It was flat and even, eerily silent compared to the the cacophony of sounds they’d heard upon coming up. The wildlife had chosen to keep away.

Suzanne slowed down, coming to a sudden halt near where the river cut through the grass.

Scully doubled over and vomited. Mulder held her hair back until she was finished, the earth staining yellow and filmy. He stroked her back and took inventory of the empty clearing. Suzanne ignored them as she stumbled around, drunk on her desperation.

“This is their place,” she panted. “This is  _their place_. Where the hell is he?”

A crunching noise caught all of their attention. They turned towards the section of woods it came from. Preston came out, terrified, holding his hands out in warning.   
  
“Suzanne,” he said. “You need to go  _home_. You don’t need to be here.”

“Is Davis with you? Where is he?”   
  
“Suzanne, no! Don’t go back there!” It was too late. Suzanne slipped behind the trees and off of the trail. Mulder and Scully followed after her, leaving Preston’s anxious cries behind.

The trees grew closer and closer together. They could no longer run; instead they squeezed themselves between the pines and pushed aside cobwebs. The forest became a sightless void as they left the moon and all of its guidance behind. Scully didn’t see Mulder but she could hear him, and when she reached out she could touch him, too. They were trapped together in the thick of it, inching by as if they were passing through a narrow cave.

The air changed. Where it was once crisp and cool with the scent of pine, there was now the musty, cloying stench of mud, and their shoes sunk into the dirt with a wet squelch. The river had picked up again, wherever they were. At first there was something akin to the smell of rotten fish, like perhaps they were passing over a portion where the river was trying to dry. But just as the trees became so thick Scully worried they might not pass through, their group suddenly emptied out onto another, slighter clearing. And before she saw it, she knew without a doubt what they would find.

There was light, then. Only a small sliver of the moon, but a nice warm fire, too, and a few lanterns sitting around the camp that made it cozy. The shadows that danced through the firelight against the trees showed for all the world a most joyous campfire, where lovers sat shoulder to shoulder and laughed at all the stories their soulmates had to tell. It looked like a slice of heaven here on earth. The kind that God had warned about. The kind you had to carve for yourself.

They approached Davis slowly. He was sitting on a log and laughing to himself, one loose arm slung around the stiff, swollen body of his beloved Tilly. She looked exactly as she did the day she died. Her dress was dirty but her hair was combed through, shocking white and down to the small of her back. Her eyes were wide open as if she could not bear to look away from the person she loved most in the world.

Opposite of the them were Sarah May, and Raymond and Josephine Graham. They were significantly worse for wear. Sarah May was well past ten years dead. Her face was hollowed in and discolored, a dusty attic gray, her mouth wide open in a silent scream but her eyes glued shut. Her dress was stained through with mud, as if she had been dragged there, not carried.

Josephine, only four years dead, was still in relatively good condition. Her casket had probably been well-made, air tight and solid, but being exposed to open air like this would ruin her much faster than her forever sleep in the ground. Her husband hadn’t faired as well with his putrefying lower half. The stench that poured off of him mixed with the clean scents of burning wood and pine, and it tricked the senses like rotten, wet fifty-year old garbage soaked in the sweetest air freshener. Parts of him had fallen away, the thread of his flesh unspooling with the passage of time. Upon closer examination, it appeared that someone had tried to rectify this by reattaching the limbs. Shoddily. Wonkily. By someone who was rather new with the needle.

Suzanne fell to her knees and screamed. Birds lifted from the trees, joining her with their screeches. Sleeping animals scurried out of their holes and far away from the horror of it all. Davis didn’t turn around. Nothing distracted him from enjoying his friends, not until Mulder approached him and cautiously called his name.

The old man was perfectly content to be led away. He put the fire out and bid farewell to Tilly with a firm, smacking kiss on her frozen lips.

“She won’t be lonely,” he said. “She’s got all our friends to sit with her awhile until I’m right there with her.”

This time there was no running. Scully led the way for Suzanne, who was in shock. For Davis, who tried to start one hundred different conversations with them all on the slow descent. For Preston, who trembled and promised he only wanted to help the old man who helped him. Promised that he didn’t know how to say no.

“He was so damn lonely,” he whispered. Later on, when taking his statement, they would find out that Preston was only fourteen.

Mulder stayed at the back, keeping a close eye on Davis.

When they got to the station, the mobsters from the afternoon reached their hands from out of the holding cell and spat at the catatonic Suzanne. She paid them no mind. Davis said hello everyone, how are you all, waving and smiling warmly.   
  
“Hey Davis!” They said back. And they screamed uproariously when they saw him being cuffed and read his rights. Preston was led into an interrogation room.

Officer Brighton could barely keep it together, but he did. He sent Suzanne away with two officers who would get in contact with her probation officer to figure out the best solution for her relocation. He told everyone in the holding cell to shut the hell up. And when Mulder and Scully came to ask if there was anything else he needed from them, he thanked them with sincerity, shaking their hands and apologizing for the way everything happened.  
  
“It ain’t like this normally,” Officer Brighton said, and he spoke like a child, like he thought he might one day lock away the memories of this night. “It ain’t… it ain’t.”

At the motel, Mulder called and booked their flights for early in the morning, and they went to a diner in Clayton for a hot meal. It went alright. Scully ordered soup, and it warmed her the way a saline drip would chill her bones. She swore to herself she would keep it down. That seemed important, somehow. She would keep it down.

At three a.m., Scully was brushing her teeth after spending an hour kneeling in front of the toilet. A pounding at the door interrupted the spitting faucet. She finished, rinsed her toothbrush, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. When she answered the door and Mulder stood there, his face pale, his eyes bloodshot, she wondered if he could smell it on her. Hoped that he couldn’t.

But it didn’t matter. It was one small thing in a long list of things that no longer mattered. He fell into her arms, feverish and so full of grief it spilled out into her. She drowned in it, and she thought back to all the times they’d sat together, laughing. His arm slung over her shoulder.

She knew without a doubt he would never recover from this slow betrayal of hers. She held him, alive. And lamented she would not be able to do it when she was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I don't write many things like this because I always psych myself out before I finish them. So I'm really proud of this, and knowing people enjoyed it gives me more confidence to keep going. I appreciate ya <3


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